


Space Debris

by MrMundy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Minor Original Character(s), drabbles from my roleplay blog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMundy/pseuds/MrMundy
Summary: A collection of drabbles from my roleplay blog, because I want to post them where others can see them.





	1. Glimpses

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a conversation between myself and a roleplay buddy - siebren gets to see bits of other universes where things went right.

The universe is cruel.

It gives what it wants to, only to tear things away too soon, or use the imagery to tempt Siebren further into the recesses of his own mind. Like a black hole, he’s pulled further inward, spiralling into nothingness - but a pleasant nothingness, a glimpse of what he could have had, had he not tampered too much, pushed too far, wanted to  _ know  _ so badly.

The universe gifts him with the feeling of his hands clasped in Harold’s and he loses himself in it, in the just-barely uncanny, slightly unreal smile on his face and the warmth of him. It’s strange, Harold smiles a little too widely, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that the home they’re in smells sterile and decrepit at the same time. Doesn’t care that he can’t hear his daughter’s voice as she laughs, because at least she’s here, smiling, and he can let that image burn into his brain for as long as he can remember, until the universe takes that away from him, too.

He’s  _ desperate  _ to live in this made up world, where Harold pulls him in for a kiss and it feels like he’s only half there, where he can slink back into his mind and daydream about having a life with him.

But then Harold leans into him, presses his forehead to his shoulder and sighs.

“This isn’t how this goes. You know that, Siebren.”

Siebren’s throat tightens. 

It always happens this way.

It always  _ ends  _ this way.

“Can’t I stay? I don’t want to be alone.”

Just like every other time, Harold leans back and shakes his head, raises his hand to touch Siebren’s face, a feather-light touch that almost feels real. His thumb strokes over the bump of his cheekbone, and Siebren’s breath hitches when he feels a ring on his finger. He could have,  _ they  _ could have…

“You know you can’t. Maybe in another lifetime, honey. But not now.”

Siebren’s chest heaves with a sob.

Harold’s hand retreats.

Siebren opens his eyes and, just as always, is met with the cruel fate he’s been forced to endure: alone, captive, a prisoner both of his own mind and of literal shackles and unbreakable walls.


	2. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siebren thinks about his family.

“Good job, there you go!” Siebren said, his expression lighting up with unrestrained joy. He was younger, happier, sitting upon a piano bench with a child on his knee. She carefully chose what keys to press, only sometimes looking up at him for confirmation that she was doing well.

She paused suddenly, looking up at him. He knew what she was going to ask - it was always the same question.

“Papa, why can’t I stay with _you_?”

He frowned. Chose his words carefully, just as he always did.

“I have so much work to do, Milou, and your mother has more time than I do.”

He watched her face, the frustration evident in her eyes. Again he opened his mouth to speak but suddenly he was alone, floating inches from the ground, the hum of air vents overriding his own thoughts. Weariness crept over his body.

That had been, what, twenty years ago? Thirty? Who was counting? He should be, but time wasn’t normal any longer - time did what it wanted around him. How long had he been in this particular laboratory? How long since he’d set foot on Earth, in his home, since he’d known anything but the sterility of a space station?

He should call his Milou.

How old was she, now? Last time he’d seen her, she’d gotten married, right? She had a child of her own. He had a grandchild that he never visited.

What a terrible father he was, these days.

Perhaps he _should_ call her.

_But she is always so busy_, his mind provided, and he hesitated.

He could wait.

He had work to do, after all.

Couldn’t let it fall behind.

Doctor O’Deorain said so all the time.


End file.
